


A Prelude to Schism

by Valyssia



Series: Shards of Reflection: Other Fragments [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Community: kinda_gay, Community: narrative_x_10, Community: tamingthemuse, Dubious Consent, F/M, Season/Series 06, Sexual Indifference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 12:58:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valyssia/pseuds/Valyssia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The root of the problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Prelude to Schism

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompts:** #373 Cultivate at [Taming the Muse](http://tamingthemuse.livejournal.com/); #30 Historical Events: Operation Barbarossa (The German invasion of Russia during World War 2) and Campagne de Russie (The French invasion of Russia during the War of 1812) from the [Pop Culture Prompt Table](http://valyssia.dreamwidth.org/93248.html#cutid1) at [Kinda Gay](http://kinda-gay.livejournal.com/); Story 2 from [First Person Table](http://valyssia.dreamwidth.org/121079.html#cutid1) at [Narrative x 10](http://narrative-x-10.livejournal.com/).
> 
>  
> 
> **This isn't a Spuffy romance story. If that's what you're looking for, hit the back arrow now.**

A loud clatter from across the room draws my attention. I glance up from the book I’ve been trying to read. The operative word being ‘trying.’ They really are. A scowl tugs at the corners of my mouth, its tension running all the way down to my toes, like the two things are joined. Andrew’s grunting, squealing and snuffling might as well be nails on a chalkboard or the grinding of teeth. Niggling little shivers slither up and down my spine. Muscles twitch beside my jaw, behind my ears. I could scream.

I might feel better if I did.

I open my mouth, but instead of screaming, I end up moving my jaw from side-to-side, stretching the tension away.

The Warden wants me to do this. He nags me like my mother. He’s worse than my mother. And to make things all the more entertaining, he’s decided to exert his alpha maleness again—like he ever really stops. Now he wants the Playstation and he isn’t above pummeling Andrew to a gooey paste to get it, or anything else that gets in the way, like the poor coffee table.

_Fun._

“Think you two could keep it down? Trying to concentrate here,” I grumble.

The Warden sits up where he is in the middle of the floor. It’s like he barely notices Andrew pounding away at the carelessly placed leg that holds him down. “Got something, Puff-n-Stuff?” the Warden asks hopefully.

“Yeah,” I reply, “a headache.” If he didn’t freak me out so much, I’d kill him. Instead, I prop my elbows on either side my book, take my head in hand and start to massage my temples, working around to the back of my neck.

And of course, like clockwork, the Warden comes to loom over my shoulder. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. So to make things better, I try _again_ to explain, “Look, if I get this wrong,” like he’ll even listen—like he even cares, “we could end up with a slayer with all the scruples of…” I want to say ‘you,’ but no good could come from that “…a congressman or a cop.” He’s really creeping me out. “I just need to think. I need some time. And y’know, a little peace.”

I end up with the heels of my hands pressed against either temple, staring down at my book. My eyelids pull. The words blur. It’s a good pose, one I’ve been using a lot lately. It makes me look like I’m concentrating, when what I’m really doing is trying to hold my brains in. They keep threatening to jump out. I think what they really want is to mutate into spidery legs so at least my head can flee.

It surprises me a little when the windy moaning, clap of gunfire, thud of footfalls and all the other miscellaneous vacant noises cut off suddenly. Andrew’s usually lots more single-minded about his video games. I twist around in my seat just in time for him to say, “What’re the chances we could have a—” He breaks off to clear his throat. His cheeks color. “Y’know, a real submissive, sex-kitten-slayer? Only not ‘slayer,’ because it’d be the other part, right?”

I feel bad for him, so I try to answer honestly, “It’s doable, but tricky. Depends on how the weapon’s charged. All the rest of her personality would be attached to the slayer, though. It has to be balanced right. A slayer without a conscience would be bad.” I pick up a pencil and tap it against the book.

Of course, the Warden’s chuckling. “No, but a sex kitten without a conscience has some serious possibilities,” he says. “Keep at it. Sounds like progress to me.” Patting me on the shoulder, he turns his attention to Andrew again.

I’d hide that controller if I was you. But instead of being his usual bullying douchebag self, the Warden wanders over to the couch and sits down. Andrew leans in to whisper something and I turn back to my book. I don’t know why he even bothers. It isn’t like this place is an actual lab or military base, like he wants to pretend. It’s a basement with the acoustics of a cave. I hear him hiss as plain as day, “So, what’re we really doing?”

The Warden isn’t as credulous or sloppy. He leads Andrew into the covey where Mrs. Mears does the laundry. The one place where—thank god—the sounds don’t carry so well because of the partition. He shouldn’t bother. I already know what he’s going to say. His plans aren’t any different than the Tothric demon’s were. What other reason could an evil genius possibly have for making slayer-concentrate?

Whatever’s leftover will be vulnerable. Thing is, I don’t want to hurt Buffy. That isn’t what I signed up for. A few pranks were fine. Give the slayer a hard time. Some of it was even kind of funny. But he’s talking about murder, like actually taking a life. My tummy does a flip at the thought. It’s more of an admission. I hadn’t really put it completely together before now. I hadn’t allowed myself to. I didn’t want to admit that I couldn’t do it. I’m not sure I can even be a party to it. She’s always been so nice to me.

I mean, when she noticed me.

But I can’t blame her for not noticing. I’m not much to notice. I remember the way she smiled at me. It was like being noticed by the sun. The warm gush of sentimentality makes me feel like such a girl. I brush it off by tensing up, gritting my teeth, setting my jaw. I wish I could’ve—

It isn’t like I thought she’d ever— I would’ve gone to her if I thought she wouldn’t— She has the others: Xander and Willow. What could she possibly want from me?

I need to get out of here. I don’t belong. But I don’t know how. I—

“Yeah, _yeah_ …I guess you’re right,” Andrew says. They’re headed back to the couch. Fitting, the Warden walks behind Andrew like a guard.

“I know I’m right,” he says, sounding confident. “Leave it to me. I’ll make you famous. Chicks will be lined up for miles just to shake your hand.”

“That isn’t exactly what I’d want ’em to shake,” Andrew replies. He tries for cool, but his voice cracks again and he mumbles at the end. When I glance over my shoulder, his face looks like a baboon’s backside.

I’m one to talk. I don’t know how to deal with girls either. If I did, I wouldn’t be here.

Warren smiles at me and nods in a ‘carry on,’ ‘I’ve got everything under control’ kind of gesture.

I wait to roll my eyes until I’m looking at my book again. The sad thing is, this is a puzzle. I love puzzles. They’re addictive. I do this sort of thing to take my mind off other things. That’s just how I am. I mull stuff over. But by doing that, I’m doing exactly what I don’t want to do.

I need something else to do.

  


* * *

  


I scan the storeroom. It looks like the burrow of a Meevillis Demon. The shelves’ contents have been turned upside-down. So much disorder. Nothing’s where it belongs. It’ll take the whole morning for me to organize this mess. And no doubt things will be missing.

“I don’t believe this,” I cry out in dismay. “See? I told you. No one in this society has any respect for gross consumerism. They all think they deserve something for free. It’s just—” I huff. “It’s—” I can’t even find the correct word. It’s an abomination, but I’m not going to say that to Willow. She’ll think I’m overreacting when I’m so clearly not. This shop is my livelihood. She just doesn’t understand.

I start for the shelves and don’t even make it. There’s a bag of dried green leaves on the floor. I can’t walk on it, so I stoop to pick it up. They could be lawn clippings for all I know. Someone could’ve introduced bogus stock into our inventory to discredit the shop.

I sniff. It smells spicy. I think its damiana leaf. If so, it should be with the love potions stuff on the fourth shelving unit from the corner midway down. But it could be chamomile too, in which case it needs to go with the common ingredients for sleeping draft, second shelving unit, third shelf up. I open the bag, hold it up beneath my nose and breathe in. It’s damiana. I put it into the Tupperware bin where it belongs. But the bins below it—they’re all mixed up too. That’s so clearly a burdock root in with the ginger and there’s an astragalus root in with the ginseng.

Giles wanted to organize our inventory alphabetically, but that would’ve been ridiculous. You wouldn’t put—

The right word finally comes to me as I kneel to inventory and sort the roots. So of course, I blurt it out, “It’s un-American! That’s what it is!”

“Oh, Anya, it’s just a few spell ingredients,” Willow replies. She’s trying to dismiss me. It’s nothing. It’ll all be okay. On the stairs a tread creaks. The second one up is squeaky. That means she’s—

I knew it. She doesn’t intend to help. She’s…she’s… “That’s right, just leave,” I grumble, incensed. “Leave me in my time of grief. I swear, all you people think about is yourselves.”

The stairs creak some more. She must be turning around. As I look up, she meets my gaze and holds it. “Not leaving,” she says in an effort to be reassuring. She’s just trying to get out of helping. She even smiles in that sneaky, placating way. Well, her witchy wiles won’t work on—

“No one knows the inventory down here as well as you do,” she says and she’s right. This store is my life. “I just thought I’d go look through the books. I sorta know what’s there and—I dunno—I thought I’d be more useful.”

“Oh,” I gasp, peering back down into the bin. She does have a point, but she shouldn’t be alone with any of this. She might backslide. She could—

Damn it all to Furbish Hell. “Now look what you made me do,” I grumble, but she doesn’t hear me. Or she pretends not to. She made me lose count. I s’pose I would be better off doing this on my own, without her interruptions. I carefully wipe beneath my eyes, hoping to catch tears that haven’t yet come, which is silly. I just don’t want to ruin my makeup. I don’t want her to see me—

There’s that stupid nagging ache behind my eyes. It’s pointless and mortal. “I suppose there is some sense to your plan. Very well, carry on,” I say authoritatively. I am in charge, after all. She _is_ my underling for the moment. This is my decision.

She turns to go, but before she’s even taken a step she looks back to say, “I’ll be fine. Just counting, no casting, I promise.”

Is that guilt?

She sighs. “I just knew you’d say it,” she mumbles anxiously, then bounds up the stairs.

My derision leaks out as a snort. I can’t help it. There’ve been better ideas. Caesar ambling into that senate room was a better idea. Invading Russia in winter was a better idea, _twice_. Maybe I should go watch and _umm_ …supervise.

  


* * *

  


Sadly, Jonathan really has my attention now. He’s going to singe his freakish little troll fingers off. This could get gruesome. Steam rises from the caldron, like lots of steam. Looks like enough for a rolling boil to me. As I expect from the sleeve rolling, the Boy Blunder sticks his whole hand along with the big ugly stick into the pot. I expect screaming. All he does is cringe. It shouldn’t surprise me that he turns out to be a huge disappointment. He draws his mitt out. There’s no dripping flesh, no oozing pustules. It’s a little red. That’s all.

The stick’s glowing sort of a soft menacing Swamp Thing green. That’s kind of cool and probably a good sign. The dorky grin on his face is an even better sign. The best sign of all comes when he says, “Think I got it. Bring me a test subject.”

No way am I getting anywhere near this. I wave Andrew away to collect the subject.

Alright, well, go Team Dweeb. It only took Opie hours to convince Captain Conscience that all we’re going to do is rough the slayer up. ‘We have to send her packing. How else are we going to take over this two horse town?’ Blah, blah, blah…

I’ll show them how else, right before I retire their stupid asses. I should’ve known it’d be like this. All the great super villains have had minions. And every single one of them has been either a lickspittle or a bleeding heart. Well, except for Harley Quinn and early Emma Frost. Pretty pieces of ass are the exception to the rule. Exceptions these guys aren’t. Figures I got the matched set. And they think they’re going to be like me. Morons. I chuckle softly to myself. It’s like they aren’t even paying attention.

Andrew brings a cage out of the laundry room. Inside it is a white rat with patchy brown spots. My idea. Dorkus got plain old white lab rats. I sent him back. I don’t trust our Lady Mercy not to pull some sleight of hand. Andrew sets the cage on a small empty table he placed against an equally empty wall. Minions might be good for something. Scut work, that’s about it. And even then they need coaching.

“Take your best shot, Junior,” I say.

Jonathan poses, like he thinks he’s Hellboy or something. I do have to admit that the green beam is cool. And he does pull it off. Sure enough, once the congratulatory frolic is over, I’m able to see that there are indeed two rats in the cage. And they are identical.

One’s eating the other, but—

“Better luck next time, Boy Wonder,” I say, knowing exactly how they’ll react. I think it’s interesting.

They flip out, Andrew whinging and sputtering, “They’re not supposed to be doing that, right, ’cause it’s pretty gross?” and Jonathan going all girly, unable to watch. They’re almost as much fun as the rats.

I try to imagine the slayer doing this. It’s actually perfect, but I’d never convince them of that. I don’t need to. Yawnathan’s already trying to work out what went wrong. He’ll come up with something, and whatever it is, I’ll be able to use it to my advantage.

I stride over to the couch and flop down on its length. Wake me when you’re done.

  


* * *

  


My eyes are dry. They itch. I resist the urge to touch my face. All I need is to rub this slime into my skin. A nice fat zit would really jazz up this silly hat. Call it an ensemble look. And for the eau de parfum, I smell like a grease fire in a meat packing plant. Fitting. Enchanting.

All my prayers have been answered. I push the employee entrance open and step outside. I get to go home, avoid my friends, feign indifference. The rear of the building is illuminated in patches, as if by dingy, lazy spotlights. I’m tempted to do a runway strut, twirl around like Judy Garland, maybe skip a little. Somehow it seems appropriate to revel in the horror of the moment.

I get glad I didn’t when, from a nook in the building behind me, Spike drawls, “Well, well, well…”

Who knew I had more prayers to answer? This must be my lucky day. I see his sneer before I turn. I know just how he’s gonna look. It’s a given. Spike’s enjoying this. He’s one of the ones—

Whatever. I don’t cringe. I don’t roll my eyes. I remain aloof and composed as he looks me over. Laugh it up blood breath. “What do you want, Spike?” I demand as he circles me, determined to block my path. I move with him, push him out of my way and take off. I don’t have to put up with this.

Of course, his opinion varies. He thinks he can follow me. He’s sure I’ll put up with it—convinced that I won’t turn him into so much fertilizer. Ashes are good for the roses, or so they say. Funny, there aren’t any roses in the cemeteries here. Maybe I should suggest that. Brighten them up a little.

He grabs my arm as we enter the thicket behind the DuMP. He even has a rant, “I can’t believe you went through with—” Not that he does much with it. Exasperation sort of chokes him off. As I jerk my arm free, he finds his voice. “You know you’re better than this.”

“Better than what?” I ask, speeding up. Weeds slap at my pants legs, adding glitz to the moment. “Earning an honest wage? Keeping food on the table? Not letting my life fall apart? What am I better than, Spike?”

He sets himself up again, catching my arm, spinning me to face him. It’s all can manage not to set him on his ass. When I see his expression, I’m kind of glad I resisted. He looks genuinely distressed, like he isn’t actually harassing me. He’s worried.

“You know what I mean, Buffy,” he implores, searching my face. “How can you not? Look at the state of you.”

But _really_ , the last thing I need is his pity. I’m doing what I have to to survive. He should understand that as well, if not better than anyone else.

“I don’t know shit, Spike,” I shout. I let the anger fade. Put on a little show. Some mock consideration. A smidge of consternation. He doesn’t interrupt. Good for him. Finally, I break the stalemate. “Actually, I know this. If you don’t get your hands off me…” I pause a beat or two for effect “…you’ll miss them.”

“Miss?” he asks dully.

Totally disappointing—wasting such a good line. The greasy tennis shoe to the chin is even better. Seriously satisfying. I’m on the move before he even hits the ground. I glance back to call over my shoulder, “Just leave me alone.” It’s none of his business what I do. I don’t care what he thinks.

Which, of course, is total bullshit.

  


* * *

  


The front door opens as I pour water from the kettle into my cup. Oh good, Buffy’s home. I call out, “You have a good day?” but she doesn’t answer me, so I leave my tea to steep and move to head her off.

I’m way too slow. By the time I make it to the door, she’s already upstairs. I follow. Not that I want to interrupt. I know she has to feel ooky, but I should say something. It’s just horrible that she has to work in that place. I feel like it’s my fault. It know isn’t, but in a way it is. I was hoping she’d be able to enroll in school, but—

She almost runs me down in the hallway. I was right about the shower. She’s already got her robe on. And no wonder. She doesn’t smell so good. Her hair’s lank. She looks exhausted. I ask, “Are you okay?”

A cheerful smile almost brightens her face. It’s a near thing. “Yeah, just peachy,” she says. “Tired. Need a shower.”

Post smile, she looks anything but peachy. ‘Tired,’ I believe. I should just go along—play her game. It’d be easier, but I’m worried, so I say, “Okay, well…you don’t look peachy, but—” She pushes past me before I have a chance to let her off the hook with a good ol’ conciliatory ‘if you say so.’ I turn with her, but she just keeps going.

At the little hallway spur, alcovey thing that leads to the bathroom she pauses to say, “Look, Will, not that I don’t appreciate—’cause I do—but could we go back to the ‘not noticing’?”

My heart sinks.

“This’d be a lot easier for me if you didn’t.”

It just keeps sinking. And no wonder. She must hate me so much. That’s why—

She sighs regretfully, like this is some unfortunate, distasteful task she has to do. “Right now, what I need is a shower. Then I need to patrol. I might even have fun with the slaying. Where else can I play? Then I need to sleep because tomorrow I have to wake up and do it all over again.”

As she explains just how sucky her life is, I stare her profile dumbfounded. I’m not sure what to do. She disappears around the corner, but I remain transfixed. It takes her saying, “Please, just go back to making something of your life,” to shake me out of my stupor. And if she’d stop there, I might be okay, but she has to twist the knife once she sticks it in. “Promise me you won’t end up like this.”

She’s a slayer. What else would she do?

  


* * *

  


I should be doing this. It isn’t like I can’t do magic. What is summoning if not magic? But that’s all they ever want me to do. Now I know how Hugh Grant feels. It’s sad being typecast. 

Jonathan peers down into the cage looking smugly triumphant. Where there was one, now there are two, but the second rat doesn’t look so hot, so I ask, “The one that’s just laying there—it’s not dead, right?” It looks dead, which would be really weird. They’d both be dead, right?

The other rat looks anything but dead. It’s running its little legs off inside the exercise wheel thing. Jonathan avoids that as he pokes the dead one with a finger. Its head moves just a little. I cringe with a sympathetic twinge. I expect it to bite him, but it doesn’t. The other one might run up. Jonathan doesn’t seem worried. He just looks at me as if to ask, ‘happy?’

Warren puts his arm around Jonathan and pats his shoulder. That should be me. “Well done, Spanky my friend, well done,” he says. It’s alright. I can tell it costs him. He doesn’t like Jonathan much.

I don’t like him either. Warren’s never looked that pleased over anything I’ve done. And I’ve done lots to help. I planted all those cameras and I—

“What with her recent employment at Double Grease Palace, we may want to wait to try it on the real thing. It’s a bit late. Girl’s gotta get her rest to sling those burgers,” he muses, turning away from us. He’s right. She is pathetic. He walks to his workstation, still explaining, “Charge it up and get ready. Tomorrow night, we’re gonna have some fun, gentlemen.”

That second rat still hasn’t moved. I think he’s right about this too. If Buffy acts like this, it’ll be easy to—

My belly gives a lurch. It’s okay. Warren said he’d take care of the wet work. I just need to tag along, do my part, distract Jonathan. This is gonna work. We’re gonna be famous. The Trio that took out the slayer.

But not just. She’s the slayer that even Angelus and William the Bloody couldn’t take down. She’s faced real demons—the huge, old ones—and gods. We’ll be rich and popular. There’ll be girls. Bunches of them. And all sorts of hangers on. I might even have an entourage. I’ve always wanted one of those.

I work up my courage and stick my finger into the cage to pet the second rat. All it does is shiver. I could do anything I wanted to it and it wouldn’t care. That has certain possibilities that might make me blush if I—

This is gonna work.

  


* * *

  


My back presses against the break room wall. It feels cold through my thin, poly-blend uniform shirt. Plasticy clothes are like that. Disgusting. It’s all disgusting. I stare at the stupid motivational poster. ‘Courage.’ Wonder what happened to mine? I feel like I left it somewhere, along with half a dozen other important pieces of me.

Focusing on that is so much better than Spike—what he’s doing—holding me pinned, nuzzling my neck. I know he’ll go away if I just give him what he wants. So much for courage. I could live without the shrinking feeling that comes along with the admission. My hands rest on his upper arms, not taking my eyes off the poster. All I’d have to do is push. So why don’t I?

Maybe because I think that he should be able to get it figured. If the girl isn’t kissing you back, it might be a sign. Quickly moving on to her neck shouldn’t be a thing.

I really am a coward.

My mind wanders as he unzips my pants. He shoves his hand down the front. I drift off into the twilight colors of the poster, the silhouette of the man hanging from a rock face.

Dangling.

I’m really not into this. I’m not going to be. So of course, Spike complains. Something. He grumbles _something_. I’m not sure what. Instead of taking the hints—multiple aloof, chilly, _parched_ , blatantly obvious hints—he decides that he can fix it.

Of course he does.

Whatever. Not sure how he’s going to get around the fact that I’m wearing chinos. They’re kind of in the way. I hang with the little guy in the poster—cultivate a bond—a real one—something totally emotional, unlike what’s happening here. I want him to fall. I’d fall too. Not forever. Not even that long.

A net of lightning catches me—all pretty electric blue. I exist in that moment.

Courage.

He turns me around. Feels like he fixed my problem. Tears build at the corners of my eyes. He batters down my defenses, forces his way inside, holds me, gropes me…

My body betrays me, doing all the little things it does. I don’t mean to react at all. I feel nothing. Tears are the only thing real. They trickle down my cheeks as he—

He does what they all do. He takes another piece of me. I remember when this felt good. That seems like ages ago. It’s only been a few weeks. It wasn’t that I enjoyed it. I did—it was totally hot—but that wasn’t it. Not really. I knew how much it would disappoint—

Never mind. I’d resist if I cared. I don’t. I just let him take his fill of me. When he’s done, I straighten my clothes and leave without a word, without even looking back. Except I don’t. I hang back and wait for him to pass. Same as he did me last night. I shrink back into the shadows, close my eyes, hold my breath and pray.

The door opens. As it snicks shut, he grumbles, “I told her this place would kill her.” His boots clomp across the parking lot. It’s all good. He can assume whatever. I’m sure that’s easier on his ego than coming to terms with the fact that it might actually have something to do with him.

I wonder if there’s a twelve step program for people who are addicted to denial.

  


* * *

  


I huddle in the shadow of a mausoleum, watching the cemetery’s side entrance. My palms are sweaty. I wipe them on my jeans. That only make me focus more on how rattled I really am.

At least I’m rid of the Ferula Gemini. Warren took it. Not that I care. He can have the thing. My guess is that slayer-concentrate will be all sorts of understanding. Shouldn’t be any problem at all. She’ll just let us go.

At least I won’t be the one who shot her. There is an upside, even if I am the only one who’s unarmed. I glance at the Tazer Andrew has and consider taking it. It wouldn’t be that hard. The only problem with that plan is Andrew. He’d throw a fit. Snatching candy from a baby would be subtler. It doesn’t take much to picture him screwing up his face and shrieking. Looks pretty natural on him.

They’re gonna hang me out to dry, which means my best shot at survival will be to slip away. I can’t do it now. Not with them watching me as much as they are the fence, but maybe after—when things get hairy.

The whole idea makes me—

“Look, there’s Spike,” Andrew whispers. You’d think Angelina Jolie was coming over to give him a lap dance. The way he says, “He’s so cool,” is even more obsequious, if that’s possible. I follow his pointed finger to a figure striding along the fencerow. Sure enough, it’s Spike. He’s kind of hard to miss—what with the combination of Billy Idol hair and Blade leather trench coat.

“Be quiet, Microbrain. The slayer’s probably right behind him,” Warren hisses impatiently.

Showtime.

  


* * *

  


There are lots of wonderfully fun ways to describe my current condition: cold, hungry, tired, sore… My favorite at the moment is ‘alone,’ or maybe ‘lonely.’

Whose fault is that?

I trudge through the cemetery paying way more attention to the ground at my feet than any of the other things, potentially hazardous things I should be watching. I might stub my toe on a gravestone. That’d be tragic.

I should add another word to that list. How ’bout ‘foundered’? I like foundered. Giles would be proud of ‘foundered.’ It’s a Gilesy kind of word. It has the advantage of being of just one word, which is why I chose it. There’s nothing more annoying than someone saying they have _a_ word to describe something and finding out they have like twenty.

‘Fed up,’ just wouldn’t work, so see what I did? I made do. I can do that.

All this is just a way of avoiding the real issue, another word: used. That’s how I really feel.

Whose fault is that? If I wanted him to stop, saying it—pretty much helpful. Not his fault I could care less what—

Light fills my eyes, like someone shining a flashlight in my face, only it’s green. I barely notice. Being knocked off my feet, pitched, racked with pain— Yelping is more of a priority. I crash into a headstone and immediately spring to my feet, scanning the darkness. Which is smart right after being blinded. No clue what just happened. And until the spots clear….

They do. So do the aches and pains. Most of them. The big burny ones at least. My shoulder still hurts a little from its introduction to the headstone. I’ve had worse. This week even.

A flash of movement behind a large crypt catches my eye. I go.

Some guy yells, “Andrew, you stupid shit! Get her!”

Andrew doesn’t get me. The guy who shouted tries. His attack is a real Jim Carrey moment. I get him instead. He goes flying into a headstone. His fault, mostly. That seems fair. And look, he has friends.

One of them’s Jonathan. I recognize him, but he’s holding up his hands, shaking his head, mouthing an apology. I turn my attention to friend number two.

 _Oh_ , it’s those geeks, the ones who made me invisible. _Okay._ Geek number three has a Tazer. So this would be Andrew and the Tazer would be how he was supposed to ‘get me.’ That’s ambitious. Kind of funny. The poor little guy’s almost peeing himself.

I smile, aware that it’s totally wolfish. I can’t help it. “Bring me something?” I ask, snatching the weapon away. “Lemme see if I can figure this out.” It’s pretty obvious how it works—there’s only one button—but I pretend that it isn’t. That seems to interest him. He’s just about to explain it to me when I ‘figure it out,’ asking, “Like this?” and pressing it against his thigh. He goes all twitchy. It’s too funny. So funny I have to shock him again for being so helpful.

He’s out cold. The first geek’s still down. I’m sure he’ll be fine. Jonathan’s running like his hair’s on fire. Guess my work here’s done.

I take a step intent on following Jonathan. Not that I care about him. He’s just headed the right way. Wonder if he realizes that he’s going to run right past my house if he keeps going. I realize something. Something really cool. Or at least, it’s not terrible as ideas by me go. I’ve had worse ones.

“Manny, I quit,” I say, pitching my stupid hat behind me on the ground next to Andrew. It’ll look so much better on him.

  


* * *

  


The crypt door slams shut behind me. I make for the double malt. Best way to chase away the Doublemeat. Only tolerate one because of the other. Place makes me wanna guillotine a boy band.

I snigger. Funny, in context that statement isn’t half as bleeding barmy as it sounds. I pour two fingers, toss ’em back, pour two more, light a fag… Here’s to the antidote.

 _Right._ As my gut warms, the itch between my shoulders dulls, but it doesn’t go away. Somethin’s not right. I can’t quite put my f—

I screw up my face, my eyes, hold perfectly still and just listen. Feels just out of reach. It’s—

I wait. Nothin’ happens. Not a ruddy thing. Place is quiet as a church.

_Bugger all._

It happens as I give up and go to switch on the telly. I think I hear something. Bloody inconvenient, that. It’s probably just my imagination havin’ a bit a fun. I make just enough noise walking across the floor. I can’t be sure. So I stop again and listen close, quaff my drink, puff my cig…

Nothing. Bleeding. Happens. Not a thing.

I need my head examined. When I turn around to—sod the glass—grab the bottle, it happens again. Only this time, it’s a little louder. Little more desperate. Sounds like a wounded animal. Something bleating. Nothing better for drawing predators. I forget the bottle and the glass—consider myself drawn.

While I’m at it, can’t resist a bit of wishful thinking. Hope whatever it is, it’ll attract more than one. I could use a dance. Put a bit of the pink back in my cheeks. Work off some of the doldrums. 

Too bad it sounds like a cat. But as I draw nearer, the piteous mulling takes on a different aspect. I start to run. It sounds like a woman weeping. It sounds like—

I damn near trip over her. She’s on the ground in a tight spot between a crypt and a row of graves. Even as I see her, I have trouble believing. It’s Buffy. Nothing’s wrong with her I can see. Or smell. No blood. Nothing obviously broken. No bones at least.

Her brain’s a bit suspect. Tell me somethin’ new.

I stoop down beside her and whisper, “Everything alright, slayer?” All I do is try to touch her cheek. She flinches away like I slapped her, turning to face me. Suspicious. The girl’s gone. Completely off her rocker. I wonder what happened. I mean, she wasn’t exactly Mary Sunshine tonight—she wasn’t even Mary Musgrove—but she wasn’t this either. Somethin’ happened.

At first I think she doesn’t see me. Her eyes don’t look like they’re even focused. But then I move. She tracks me and I see the truth. She’s terrified. “I’m gonna take a stab and assume that to be a ‘no’.”

“Definitely ‘no’,” she mumbles.


End file.
